Quick funny anecdote

I went to Dachau today, and I have to confess that I am a little shaken up. I'll write about it in the next couple of days, if only for my own catharsis. However, I want to share the story that bounced me back a little.

Coming back on the bus from the camp I was in sort of a trance. I wandered around Munich, took some pictures, and I couldn't shake this feeling of weight in the air all around me. I was pretty melancholy and was very inattentive to the world around. Pulling my trusty ipod I decided to play some songs with a little pep, in hopes that the music could direct my mood into less dark recesses.

It worked, in short, I was sitting at a fountain near yet another giant old Church and apparently started singing along with Janis Joplin listening to "Me and Bobb Mcghee". I had the volume all the way up, and I realize now that I could hear myself through my headphones and the music and so I was singing pretty damn loud. I did not realize what I was doing until a nice Asian tourist couple walked over to me and dropped a 1 euro coin at my feet!

I stopped suddenly, of course, I stared at the coin and I realized what had happened and laughed hysterically. I think I made them nervous, they walked away quickly. I looked around and people were staring, and smiling, and also laughing.

Oops.

Anyway. I feel better now.

Remembering Charlie Mops

I arrived in Munich on a night train from Paris a little after dawn on Saturday October 3rd. It had been a sleepless night, largely, as it was very cold in the cabin and I had stayed up late in the night speaking with Josef, an architect from Tours, and Paul a dairy farmer from Wisconsin on semester abroad working in genetics. Later we were joined Mehud from India, a Doctor. It was good company and the conversation ranged far from politics, sports, accents, culture, I drank deeply from it as engaging talk had not been common thus far.

Autumn is taking Germany, surely, and the window in our cabin did not keep the chill away. When my eyes opened I found that my arms were folded into my shirt and I was fetal against the wall. No one felt rested and everyone was aware of possible rigors to come that evening. My hotel would not be ready for some hours, as was the case with Paul, and Josef stuck with us for a few hours and we sat in the Munich station and watched the refugees from last nights revels stagger in, and the fresh meat stride out. Train stations in Europe, the large ones anyway, have a shopping mall feel to them. The food that is quality array of local fare, there are clothing shops, markets, and every place you look to sit there is often someone already there. They are hugging their bags, or shushing a child, or staring into space and slowly rocking back and forth. They are all subconciously keeping time, waiting to get on the train, and on with their lives.

Munich's Hauptbahnhof was especially festive, as you can well imagine. The table next to us was populated by a friendly couple from Halifax, and then two enormous and strapping German men in shorts held by suspenders and matching green hats, they were wolfing down two sandwiches each. When I asked them how they were doing today the larger of the two, with a wide and straight grin said and a deep resonant voice: "SHHHTABLE."

After they met friends they were off, and replaced by a ragged Croatian. His hair was slimy, and he smelled like the night before. He was nursing a beer from a bottle and he had lost his sense of personal space. The only English words he knew were "Big, Obama, and Bush". He was very physical, hugging, slapping, and bumping fists. His stale breath and rank armpits settled in a cloud around us, and it lingered with the sudden awkwardness and then ultimately, menace. Josef has the appearance of physical delicacy, he is thin, with long curly poet's hair. Nothing in his demeanor or appearance would give pause to an overbearing drunkard blowing in from the cold morning. The drunk slapped at Josef's face, and laughed, it was hard to tell if he was trying to provoke or if his self awareness had evaporated. I felt myself tense, and I brought my shoulders back and chest out like on a nature show -- "Watch now as the American traveller feels threatened, his eyes widen, and his chest sticks out to show potential enemies his size and strength." -- I told the man to stop. He laughed and did some sort of weird tai chi dance and spoke in broken English and Slavik, I think he was talking about being in the Serbian war. He went to his knees and bent all the way back, nearly touching his spine on the ground. He waved at me from this position and then clumisly got to his feet, grabbed my hand, kissed it, and was on his way.

Josef was shaken and ashamed of it. He told me a story of when his car was rear ended by a Gypsy in a stolen automobile in Paris, and when they got out of the car the gypsy had badly beaten him, unprovoked and viciously. He said that all confrontations that might end in violence always made him severly anxious as a result. The drunkard had broken our momentum, and the conversation slowly died as each of us tried to dissect the whole incident and ponder on what it all meant. Josef left to meet his friends and Paul and I went to our separate accomodations.

The grounds for the fesitval are very near the station. And when I arrived there I was surprised at the modernity f it. Back home in Cincinnati Oktoberfest is more quaint, there was no polka music here in Munich. Rather the flashing lights of the amusement park rides play techno, or top 40 pop. The rides were all painted gaudily, one I particularly remember was painted as a movie poster from the Matrix, and also the Fifth Element. Away from the tents, there are the aforementioned rides, and of course a massive amount of stalls for food, sausage, fish, pork sandwiches, spiced nuts, and as you make your way the scents change. In fact the entire atmosphere assaults you on all sensual fronts. One of the stalls sold skewers of fresh fruit dipped in chocolate. Only the best chocolate I have ever had in my entire life by far. In the great middle of the grounds, you see very few people who are drinking or drunk. It is the in between space for those taking it slow, or meeting up, on the far north there is a grassy hill where there is no space for all the people laying down and resting. The signs of fatigue are everywhere, one of the first people I saw was a man sobbing uncontrollably at his girlfriend who was clearly massively pissed at him. There were four or five people with hand injuries, and I saw another with the pink stains of washed blood down his shirt and a swollen nose. I thought of the drunkard from this morning, and I thought of the underside of too much joy.

Finally, dotted amongst everywhere else are the tents. Each brewhouse has its own, and the elite crowd for each is specialized. Typical revellers just go where the line is shortest, or where they happen to be near when they want a drink. Getting into the tents at peak hours is a trick akin to getting into exclusive nightclubs, you can gladhand or bribe the guard, or arrive mid morning and keep your spot for twelve or thirteen hours. Constantly people are standing on the tables and they are singing and screaming and pointing at one another. The first song I heard sung by the crowd was not an old Bavarian folk song, but rather "Knockin' On Heaven's Door." The baseline from the White Stripes' 7 Nation Army is apparently the unnofficial motif of the entire affair. If you start the first bar of the music, everyone in earshot will join in, and then they will prost you an ask you where you are from.

I don't know what tent the currents led me to, I knew at the start but now I do not. I was taking a picture when I was grabbed by a group of Englishmen. One of them made me take a gulp of his stein, they asked my name, my nationality, what I was doing there. From that point my evening was a dizzying fog of faces and names and points on maps. Imagine my night as an ornately painted vase, and then thrown from the 6th story window of my hotel room. I can pick up any piece and remember something, but I can't ever put it back together. My constant companions from the night were an Englishman from Nottingham that we called Locksley, a German couple who had stein sized plastic breasts they made everyone put over their beer at some point, a heavy metal loving man from Frankfurt who I had three aggregate hours of conversation with and never got his name, and then later Alex a local nurse, and Sussanah who was in town from Salzburg where she studied tourism management.

Locksley was fond of telling everyone I was a writer from America, and by the end of the night girls would sidle up to me and ask me the name of my television show. It was like some odd, beer fueled version of the telephone game you played when you were small. Everyone whispers a message to eachother and at the end you see how it got skewed. All information seemed to flow that way outside of and inside the tent. As the night wore on, security would breeeze by, one man holding each arm of the person being removed. They would take the offending lush and push him out in the path away from the tent and then leave. If the drunk was bold, he could come straight back, and many did.

By the end of the night my name was "America". I was standing on a table with two Brazillians and a Kiwi and we were singing the Ballad of Charlie Mopps as I had taught them. Sussanah was trying to get me to come down, pulling at my hand and when I finally obliged I twisted my ankle and came down like a ton of bricks. It was an injury that wouldn't hurt until morning, I was sure, and so Locksley bought me another mug and gave me a 7 out of 10. Saying I lost massive points for the botched dismount. Everything happening around me was going super fast in some places, and slow motion in others. The beer is strong, of course, and my German friends were gratified to hear me call Miller and Bud "bullshit". At the end I was forced to produce my pen and I left with scrawled mobile numbers and email addresses on the paper I had written my train instructions upon.

I woke up face down in my hotel bed. My laptop was playing an episode of Deadwood in loop. A maid was banging on the door. It was my birthday.

The 1st verse lyrics to the Ballad of Charley Mops

A long time ago

Way back in history

When alls we had to drink was nuthin but cup of tea

Along came a man by the name of Charley Mops

And he invented a wonderful drink and he made it outta hops

He musta been an Admiral, A Sultan or a King

And to his praises we shall always sing

Lookit what he done for us

Hes filled us up with cheer

Lord bless Charlie Mops

The man who invented

Beer beer beer

piddily beer beer beer

From the personal field notes of Murray Aames Roosevelt: Vol 1. -- My First Plane Crash.

This is a funky story I wrote on the train. It is weird. You might notice where it has elements of what I have done and seen so far, or you might be far too horrified and concerned about my well being to see it. Anyway, it passed the time, and I think its funny.

I am in Tolouse, the hookers are quite forward for it being 3PM local, so I am hiding in a coffee shop, writing stories and drinking diet coke. My train out of here leaves in four hours, to Paris, and then a night train to Munich.


- - -


A French Waiter with big ears and inquisitive eyes came up to me as I finished my Espresso. He didn't speak any apparent English and so he jabbered at me quickly in his sing song lanuage. I stared up at him prepared to shrug in a confused manner as I had been doing across the entire country, but I was stopped short by the desperation in his eyes. They were great brown orbs pleading to me, trying to look into my mind, trying to will communication between us. The man's frustration was clear, he exhaled, and shifted, he looked right and then left and then reach behind his head and winced in pain. I saw his wrist twist, and heard a sickening meaty click. His knees buckled and his eyes rolled back into his head is if he were going to faint, and then he caught himself. His expression focused, his body righted itself, erect.

"Your train leaves in thirty minutes. You are going to miss it, you fool. You need to be in Tolouse before this afternoon."He grabbed my wrist. "The weasels will be on you soon."

"What? Nonsense!" I slapped him across his face. "Don't you talk to me about weasels. Don't you know enough to keep your voice down?"

It was too late.

I saw them come hustling down the avenue. Their hats were pulled over their eyes and they were blowing whistles. Everyone on the sidewalks, tourists and locals alike stopped and gawked at the show. The only person who did not was listening to music too loud on earphones, and was brutally clubbed aside as they passed. The young man hit face first on the concrete and his two front teeth broke in half. I heard another shrill cry and turned south and saw three more, they were closing, a pincers movement. One of them even ran through the fountain of wine at St. Michel.

"You rotten bastard!" I shouted at him, grabbing my bag. I scrambled to my feet, flipping the table and shattering my tiny cup. I was ready to run when I heard him shouting. "I'll kill you pigs! I live here!" I grabbed his arm and we sprinted towards Hotel de Ville.

"Hurry. They'll never fuck with us here. Don't worry, I have plenty of medievel stamps to keep their minds occupied and away from violence." The Waiter groaned, behind us everyone was shouting as we hustled into the throng of protesters outside of the distinguished Hotel de Ville. The protestors al had the crest of Bordeaux on their white tee shirts, a crest that looked to my American eyes like a biohazard warning. "Keep your head down, dammit." I pulled him to a stop in the chanting crowd. "Walk fast, do not run, say bon jour to the guard."

We approached the gates of the grand old museum next to Saint Andrews Cathedral.

"Maybe we should go into the church." The waiter said. "They wouldn't dare beat or kill us in there. Not ever. It'd be a sacrilege."

"You fool. You think Catholics will save you? Shit. How do you think they get the red dye for their stained glass windows?"

It was a grim tale. My contact in Toloun, a thick chain smoking mulatto named Eliza had been very specific on the beautiful effect of the properly oxygenated blood from human eyeballs when hit directly by the noonday sun.

The dread was palpable as we got to the gates. The fortuitous protest covered our bad scene. All witnesses assumed it had been part of that other show. I nodded and smiled at the guard and gritted my molars as I waited for the Waiter. He wiped his brow and bowed low, the guarded squinted at his odd behaviour, but finally nodded and let us pass.

"We have to find the curator Monsieur de'Ralam, he's a soldier. He will have a way out for us, as long as we can pay him."

"Don't worry." I said, and pulled my precious white envelope from my jacket's breast pocket.

"This is an extremely rare 1923 inverted Eleanor of Aquitaine stamp. It's the only one that wasn't destroyed by the Nazis, it was in Goering's personal collection, so he had all others destroyed. The bastard will faint when he sees this, sure."

The envelope had been nothing but trouble for me. A wild eyed, apparently, homeless man in a tuxedo jacket had jammed it into my hand as I waited for a train at Gare de Austerlitz. He smelled of the street. He told me he was getting married that day and that it was too dangerous for his bride for him to keep it.

"It is so valuable that no honest man can afford to buy it. And so expensive, no dishonest man will pay for it instead of destroying the person who has it. I was once the Attorney General of Luxemborg, I lived in a castle, I owned forty strong Asians, and negroes, to work my fields; I was rich enough to ignore the laws I enforced. Before me Howard Hughes, Huey Long, Princess Grace, and Michael Vick all had it, and you see what happens. Maybe, my friend, your heart and stomach are strong enough."

He opened his jacket, as a clump of hair fell from his head, the inner pocket held a fat gray rat, which he kissed tenderly on the head.

"It'll be over soon, I will be dead in twelve hours, out of my way! Its my honeymoon!" He stepped onto the tracks and ran into the tunnel into the darkness, I quickly fled, feeling as though the great cosmic eye was looking directly at my spine.

The Waiter and I moved quickly down the halls. One either side of us were inreasingly graphic late Renaissance depictions of the Crucifixion. The carpet was deep red, and thick, and soft. Overhead a muzak version of some menacing German techno song played from unseen speakers. At the end of the hall the glass case that had held a fire extinguisher was shattered. There were large oak double doors, trimmed in beaten gold guarded by two identical women, both 6'3, each had a set of long and bent bladed knives at their belts.

"Name!" They said at the same time, they sounded bored, they were both staring at me cooly.

"Murray Aames Roosevelt. This man with me is an insane vagrant I took five hundred euro from a pimp to keep out of trouble for three more hours."

The women sighed, and said in unison, "Business?"

"Passage." I replied. "I need a ride to a small airstrip, that takes personal checks, and a pilot that does not ask questions."

"What's burning?" The Waiter asked.

"Quiet!" I barked and gave the guards a fine smile. "Nevermind this man, the Catholics drained his eyeballs of blood, the poor wretch." Their eyebrows raised at once. "We're friends, see? We killed four protesters on our way in."

With that, the women were put at ease. They smiled wickedly and told us to proceed.

In the room sat two men at a long wooden table, there were fifteen seats in all. The empty chairs were populated by unpainted wooden mannequins.

"Murray Roosevelt!" de Ralam shouted jovially. He was a fat and rapidly balding. In front of him was a sinister looking .45. "This is my friend Hal Mercury of Cigar Afficionado." He indicated the man in the fine brown tweed jacket. The left sleeve of which was still smoldering, it had been mostly burned off of his arm, what charred remains clung to his blackened and burnt skin. If it was painful, the man gave no indication. It was a hint of possible strong narcotics. Half of him was covered in residue from where he had been blasted by the fire extinguisher, his black hair was half gray.

"Hiya!" He shook my hand eagerly, he had a vice grip. "We were wondering when you'd get here."

"Oh yeah? Is that right?" I asked.

"That's right!" He slapped my shoulder and the air filled with white dust and ash from his ruined jacket. "You got the stamp?"

The Waiter shifted nervously.

"Wait wait, Hal, be reasonable. Stop being such an American." de Ralam said it with affection.

"Have a seat." As he invited us, he snatched his gun with frightening speed and shot two of the mannequins in the head, between where their eyes would be. The wooden dummies flew out of the chairs. Not wanting to appear rattled by the threat I sat quickly, followed by the Waiter.

"It has been not easy to locate you Mr. Roosevelt. I have been looking for you for a week, imagine my shock when I found you were right under my nose, in Bordeaux. You should know better than to go to then tourist office."

He stared me down, his eyes had red rim from sleeplessness. "Where is the stamp?"

I laughed and helped myself to one of Hal's cigars. "The stamp is secure, would you like to buy it?"

"You amuse me, Mr. Roosevelt, you are in my very home, in my clutches, as it were. I could take it from you."

"Then you must think I am stupid, to just bring it here. Anyway, my price is not steep. I want an airplane and safe passage from the city, and then its yours."

"Now why would you want to leave? Is it not beautiful here? Surely your friend told you--" He stopped and stared at the Waiter with wide eyes. Outside the protestors were getting louder, it sounded like a full out riot. "YOU!?" He snarled and grabbed his gun and began firing wildly. Amidst the echoes of the shots were the sounds of shattering windows, and around us cannisters of tear gas rolled hideously on the fine floors of the landmark. The protestors had thrown them after they had been launched by the pigs.

I dove to the floor with a cry, and rolled from the table. I stood in time to see de'Laram put the .45 against the Waiter's forehead, who had closed his eyes and resigned himself. His lips moved quickly as he whispered a final prayer. I wanted to shout in protest to stop this murderous madness, but my eyes burned as if they were being welded, I did not see the killing, and I did not hear the shot.

What I heard above the din of the riot and chaos was a loud metal on bone clang. Rubbing my face I saw the blurry form of Hal Mercury standing over de' Laram's crumpled form, holding the fire extinguisher.

"Hurry." He said. "I am from the American Government, Rahm Emanuel sent me."

"This cigar smells awful." I told him. "I knew you were a cop."

"Don't worry about all that." He replied. "Hurry."

The three of us ran to the trade entrance, and by he loading dock sat a Piper PA-31 Navajo. "I stole this from Chateau Maradon, beat the Patriarch in a card game where I cheated. All these winemakers like vintage airplanes...savages."

"Of course." I agreed. "They love old things, that's why these swine hate America."

Hal nodded, we were all of us pouring sweat.

The plane was full of cases of wine. I was forced to sit in the Waiter's lap. "Nevermind these boxes, more winnings from my card game. Help yourself, but if you take something you won't drink I will cut your throat and throw you into the river to feed the bass." The man was sincere. "You got the stamp?"

I pulled the envelope from my jacket pocket, and then removed my jacket. It would need to be cleaned of my fear stink. "Right here."

The Navajo squeaked to a start and we made a taxi route down the street. Luckily the police were far too occupied with the riot to notice. We made our way down a pedestrian only street, picking up speed. People dived aside, and shook their fists, shouting rapidly. Many fell from their bicycles.

"One side you miserable winebloods! I will run you down like stray dogs! Nazis!" Mercury screached. "Don't you know who I am!? We have never lost a war...Vietnam was to ferret out the non hackers and assimilate them."

He passed the bloody fire extinguisher back to me, pulled back on the yoke, and we were airborne.

"Keep a low altitude, in case of fighter jets." The Waiter advised. Mercury looked back and grabbed the man's ear viciously.

"Quiet you nancy bitch! I only saved you to keep your blood and brains off my special blazer. The French don't have fighter jets." He laughed uproariously, I was frightened.

"But we do!" The Waiter sounded frightned. "We funded our Navy with the proceeds from entrance to Versailles. We bought cruise missiles from you!"

Mercury seemed rattled by this revelation. The Waiter squinted out of the window at the horizon and whined.

"Oh God! Oh God!" He was the first to see the attack helicopter. "We're doomed! The bull can smell the sow!"

"Don't worry, the French never have ammunition."

The first hail of bullets hit right over my head, tearing a hole in the side of the Navajo, which lurched helplessly and quickly lost hundreds of feet of altitude. We were out of control, I was tossed from the Waiter's lap and hit the damaged door of our aircraft, which burst open. The wind took me, the fire extinguisher went end over end into the sky, and my jacket and envelope flew in opposite directions. Only my fast reflexes allowed me to save the stamp, but I was in a free fall over a hillside covered in vines of the fruit. I stuffed the envelope into my pants and put myself into a swan dive position so as to hit face first, to avoid any unnecessary delay or pain.

I tried to organize my thoughts, think of my loved ones, and my happy memories and accomplishments. I could not focus, my mind was blank and my spirit ready. My only thought was "Huh...."

Then there was a horrid roar from all around me, it was from the propellers of our plane, it had swooped near me. I could see Mercury slumped in the cockpit, shot. The Waiter was leaned over him, holding the yoke with all his might. One of the wings was on fire, I could not see the chopper. I reached wildly for the landing gear which was near my grasp, on the third try I got it, and I screamed in pain as my shoulder popped from place due to the speed of my terminal drop. I held though, as we headed for the hillside. When I was fifteen feet from the ground, I let go and rolled to hit my already injured shoulder. I know I rolled along with no control, crushing grapes as I went. And then there was nothing but darkness.


When I woke I could smell oil, and wine. The Waiter had dragged me near where the plane come to a rest in the marred vineyard. He was sitting with his back against the ruined fuselage, rocking back and forth, his head was bleeding, he was sobbing and his mouth dripped grape juice. In both his hands were two crushed bunches of the fruit, he was mindlessly gobbling them. It was clear he had broken. Next to him, also in a seated position was Mercury, what was left of him.

"Its over." He said. "We've broken the final and fatal rule of wine country. We fucked with the grapes."

I stared at Mercury. His wild blue eyes were lifelessly open. "You whore!" I shouted in a sudden rage. "I loved that jacket! You filthy clown! You know how hard it is to find something that flattering!?" I kicked the man's corpse three times, lost my balance and fell onto my back. The Waiter continued to stuff his face with the forbidden grapes. All arond us the crates of stolen wine were cracked open, some bottles were shattered and some intact.

"They'll be waiting at every station. We're trapped like rats." The Waiter said, I sat up.

"Where did that helicopter go?" The Waiter pointed west. That was where the shredded remains of our atackers and their machine had come to a rest. "How?"

"The fire extinguisher hit it, directly, dumb luck."

"Well then. How can we be doomed with that kind of luck? These scumsuckers have no idea what they're up against."

I stood, and grabbed him under the arm with my good side and pulled him to his feet. I kicked open one of the cases of wine and took four bottles, and stuffed them into my pack. "You carry my bag. Its heavy from wine and sweat, its the least you can do."

He agreed, the grape stains made a clown like frown around his lips. "We need to leave this country."

"That's what I was thinking. My heart is far too savage at present to be in the land of grapes and hoarded sculptures."

"Germany then. We can eat from the sunflower fields on the way. Then we can steal some bikes, we can leave bottles of wine behind as payment."

"You scum." I growled. "I am not giving that wine away, a man died. You are going to carry it, which way?"

"Not sure." He shrugged.

I stuffed one more bottle into the bag, the last possible thing it could hold, the Waiter grunted but said nothing. We walked away from the late day sun, headed East. I sang him lots of songs.

In which I nearly blow the whole damn thing...

The ticket to Nice said that the train was to arrive at 852AM. So when, after sleeping like a corpse, I awoke at 935 I thought I had screwed the dog. Not the dog in the four man berth I was in, no no, not that one; the one that peed in our compartment.

Having just awakened to apparently awful news, I leapt up and asked my 1 night room mates if we had passed Nice. Pronounced neece.

"Nice?" The pushy rich guy asked.

"Yes. Nice... did... we... already...pass...Nice." I motioned with my thumb in the opposite direction of where we were headed. For the train had stopped again and I was trying to ascertain if it was the right move to get off.

"Nice." The man nodded. "Nice."

"Nice" Agreed the dog lady, who had also coughed so badly in the night I had an H1N1 dream.

This was, obviously, most unhelpful. I quickly gathered my things and left the train at Toloun. Which I was pretty sure was Tolouse. Knowing fuckall about French geography, I wasn't sure the proximity to Nice. I decided I could grab some breakfast, and figure it all out. I left the station and headed to a cafe across the street, to regroup, to study my timetables. I bought a beer, and a water, I went to the bathroom to rinse my face and to blessedly relieve myself. Outside, to my surprise that there were palm trees, in the square in front of the station (Gare = French for Station) is a fountain surrounded by well manicured grass, the statues appear to be drunken sailors holding eachother up. Once again, the sky was blue for all eternity in all directions, and it is hotter here in the south. So I changed into a light button down shirt, I went back to my table, chugged the beer, and looked in my laptop bag slot where I keep eurail stuff.

Not there.

My heart rate spiked, but I remained calm. I searched every compartment in my two bags. 6 in all. I checked them twice. And then three times. Pouring sweat I realized that I had left my pass, my tickets, and my insurance policy in a single beaten white envelope. I had left it in Couche 12 berth 81. That is the lower left hand bunk of the 12th cab. I was pretty sure I was fucked. So I did what anyone would have to do thousands of miles from anyone who loves them, in a place where you are only 80% sure you know where you are, having just lost a 2000 dollar slip of paper. I laughed hysterically. I laughed all the way back into the station where I started the long process of piecing together two languages enough for people to understand what it was I was saying my problem is.

I made that last sentence awkward. It being words in orders starting to have to adjust to am I.

Not that these people were not helpful. They were trying. We all understood the grave consequences. For even with my insurance on my pass. It just assures I will be reimbursed for the unused time on the pass. I'd have to order a fresh one. It'd take a week. The most helpful man decided that the next stop for the train, it had only been twenty minutes or so, was Carcassonne. He said that the train would arrive there in half an hour. So I went across the street again, breakfast this time, one of those tiny cups of coffee, a croissant, fresh air to massage my lungs to maybe soothe my nervous heart. I was still greatly amused, and feeling as though it would work out. I wasn't really scared or overly nervous after the initial injection of adrenaline. The following are the notes I took in my book over breakfast:

9/29

I'm pretty sure I am in Tolouse. The sign said Toloun, and the books say its called Villa de Rose for the pink townhouses. I am sitting on the patio of Brasserie Climatise. It is in front of a big pink townhouse...selah.

I was supposed to be in Nice but missed my stop. When I hastily got out of the train in Toloun I left behind my rail pass and tickets. I am sitting here waiting word they found them at the next station. I was stressed for 10 seconds, now, having chugged a morning beer, coffee, croissant, I am currently fine.

At the table across from me is a burly mulatto (I have just realized as I copy this, someone told me not long ago Mulatto is offensive, which I did not know. I am leaving it for purity's sake.) woman, she is having coffee, juice, bread, jam, lots of butter, croissants, water, and Marlboro reds for breakfast. She is spastically gesturing and bursting into loud laughter. This is where I am.

I am also laughing.

A woman of about 85 just walked by, her skin is spotted, it was discoloured from dying pigment. She walks with a hunched back, cane, and smile. She has a traveller's backpack, and a camera slung across her neck. A real hero. I told her she looked beautiful. She laughed and didn't say anything. Made her way.

The writing took my mind off things. I went back to the welcome station in Toloun, to find my helpful man was no longer there. I had to explain my position again, and the woman said 10 more minutes. I wandered into the lounge and made eyes at some pretty dark featured girl. It has been ten days since I shaved, which means today is the day my stubble is perfect and manly, and awesome. It also means I will need to shave in two days max, lest I look homeless.
Which, now that I read this, might be the way to go anyhow.

After ten minutes I returned, to find, once again, a new person at the station. I once again explained what happened..this time to Nadia; whom I shall always remember. She is the one that figured out that the train never went to Carcassonne at all. It terimated in Nice. I didn't miss my stop. I got off before we got there. This was all completely unnecesary.

Nice.

"Nice. Yes. Nice." people from my cabin said. I got off before my stop. The trip took four hours longer than my ticket said it would.

As I was talking to Nadia she told me the train had arrived, give her ten more minutes. So I went and talked with Vinissa (no idea...prolly Vanessa with her accent). She was headed to Paris. When I returned to Nadia, she was on the phone and gave me a thumbs up. I laughed again, and blew her a kiss. The envelope would be waiting for me in Nice. The ticket there was 25E because I did not have my pass... oh well.

The ride was two hours and the cabin was initially empty in 2nd class. I took pictures but they do not justify the beauty of watching southern France zoom by you. There are these sun drenched red mountains, surrounded by evergreen forests. There are vineyards everyplace and they touch against junk yards. The buildings are all shades of yellow as if you are in Italy or Santa Fe. All them have balconies, and from all of those balconies hang clothes like flags that announce who lives here, a woman's loose cotton shirt, a man's worn work pants stained with dirt and sweat. I went through St. Raphael, Albrites, and Cannes. When we came to Cannes, I stopped staring out of my window long enough to look across the aisle and realized that the ocean had snuck up behind me.

I have never ever seen the ocean and been surprised. It was wonderful.

Nice is near Cannes. I was eager to get my pass and I jumped out of my seat to be out in front of the big group of Asian folks who got on at Cannes. I quickly made my way, was sent from the welcome station to the lost and found. Had to wait fifteen minutes at the lost and found and just as I was about to speak with the man, I was paged on the intercom. To go to the welcome station where I had been sent from towards the lost and found. I didn't care. My relief was great and my heart was full of validation and joy for the faith I had all day that it would work out. The woman at the station was shocked that I had heard her and listened, she seemed most pleased. After examining my passport she returned my precious envelope.

As I walked away from the station. I realized my awesome black and white pinstriped sportcoat was not with me...

I left it on the train...

Fuck me running.

- - -

I woke at 6am France time on the train to Bordeaux. I was alone in the cabin, which is rare and awesome. I stole all the pillows and free bottles of water from each bunk. Despite the small accomodations, and the ever present lurching of the train, I sleep exceedingly well on them.
I opened the window, I was the only sign of life on the train, and stuck my head out of the window like a dog and breathed in the whipped cool air.

Been humming to myself a great deal. I think it is because as the language barrier becomes more solid, I grow a little more isolated. Aside from the girl at the train station, chances for conversations have been a little thin on the ground. People are still kind and friendly, but for me especially it is difficult to get by without words, words are my friends. I do not want for anything that I attempt to get, but the social dynamics are different. It is hard to get people's stories, and share my own. I need to learn French. I like the way they speak, the language is very musical and graceful. Plus, its personally annoying when you can't make clear to people just how damned clever and awesome you are.

Rolled into Bordeaux on time. The neighborhood around St. Jean station is an especially seedy red light district. One side of the street full of peep shows, porn theaters, showgirl revues, none of them look like they have a lot of talent there. The other side of the street is filled with ATMs. When you are in France you find that that ATMs are sometimes hard to come by, certainly not as handy as in the US, but apparently the key is to find porno shops (another hint, don't get a headache on Sunday, nothing with pan reliever is open). I walked with my turtle shell (ie: all my shit) for about 4 miles, zigzagging through industrail BDX, as they call it. The buildings are old, and not without charm, but there is a certain Oliver Twist, meets bad block New Orleans, meets modern litter and filth sort of ambience. It certainly didn't strike me as a place that was as know for something so uppity as wine making. However, the further from the station I got, the lighter the buildings, the smells went from sulphur and urine to baked goods. I passed a gyspsy flea market, and made sure to put my wallet in my front pocket. And then I was in the divide between seedy Gare district, and the historic district which has been renewed and revitalized very recently. That's where I found my hotel, 39E, clean, private bathroom, best place I have been so far. Hotel de Lyon on Rue de Ramperts.

Old Bordeaux is stunning. It is open, and fresh, the buildings are so old and yet in such good repair. The entire 7 block historic district is pedestrian only. Near the Monument aux Girondins, which is this incredible fountain, they were tearing down an apparent carnival that I just missed... drat.
A monorail creeps along the streets, connecting everywhere, in fact the monorail is how I finally found old BDX without a map, figuring the monorail isn't headed to where they sell crack. The streets have roads for cars, bike tracks, and sidewalks, and in between is grass over which the monorail floats. It's all very orderly and interesting. The avenues are very wide.

Actually I could have just taken the monorail from Gare St. Jean for 1.30E, but I think its important to make the walk. I saw two moldering Cathedrals, and the gypsies. My Hotel is 100 feet from St. Andre's which they are currently restoring, half of the building is black from the grime of 800 years. After I had checked in I sat in front of it for an hour, nursing a diet coke, watching kids ride bikes back and forth doing wheelies. There are 100s of Vineyards nearby, and tours are easy to arrange, 90E for a full day, 3 vineyards, lunch and dinner. Not bad. I should have given myself more time, but as Oktoberfest is one of the only deadlines I have here, I will move on before I can do such a thing. I know a lot of people who would like this trip though, Burgundy, and Champagne are also nearby and I might just return later in the month. Either way, it would not be very expensive to go and see all 3 regions, and be happily, rosily, wined up the whole time.

What shall we do with all this useless beauty?

The first thing I saw when I stepped out of the train station at Versailles was a man putting on socks, leaning on a Weber grill, next to a full bike rack, in front of a Tex-Mex restaurant. The next thing I saw was a huge throng of sweaty people, hands on heads, clearly from some sort of running race. There were whole teams. It was apparently a large to do and it was now over at noon when I had arrived. Outside was blue forever, eighty degrees, no dreams of rain like back home. I think I was reflecting on the truly excellent weather when I saw the man who apparently had torn his nipples off while running in his lycra shirt. The shirt was yellow with two dark red circles like gunshot wounds on his chest. His friends were all talking and laughing, he was not. I tell you this, the Tex Mex restaurant, the nipples erased, because maybe you will pick up on what I did not.

This was all obviously not going to go according to plan. I am usually someone who is sensitive the signals and metaphors around me, I can spot bad omens, and for a smart and reasonable man I am quite superstitious.

Versailles had the most tourists in one place I have ever seen, and that is an insane amount of people. Likely part of this was due to the race, but the entire little town was fairly bursting with pilgrims. BeforeI had arrived I had thought this should be very economical and easy, the train took 45 minutes (only because I missed a connection flirting with some Italian chippy) and was like 4 euro total there and back. The little town itself is very attractive, with wide clean streets, and very verdant. I saw near the road in two locations minature carousels that were going round and round with children holding onto the necks of their plastic steeds. The line to get tickets inside was nearly forty five minutes as well, the girl selling the tickets had a nice face, I wanted to like her immediately. I asked for one ticket, she nodded smiled and told me it was 27 euros.

Wait...what?

"Serious?" I asked, she looked confused by my question. I have had a few occasions of price gouging, a man at a market wanted to charge me 5euro for 3 apples, my response: "5!? (holds up the bag) What else do they do?"

She was indeed serious, obviously, they wanted about 40 USD to walk around Versailles, and she looked badly nervous when I asked her if Gabriel Byrne would be there dressed as D'artanagn in his foppish Musketeer outfit, catching rotten apples with his rapier. She did not understand the question, and as this would be the only way I would be willing to spend that much to walk around someplace and take pictures I smiled at her and left. Another weird American.

I walked to the gate, hot from huge amounts of people and the strengthening noonday sun. Hot from a 45 minute wait to get ripped off. These lousy pimps! I decided, while looking at a statue of Louis XIV, looking dashing on a warhorse, that Versailles was essentially a once beautiful woman now aging who never figured out that having lots gold and marble doesn't mean you're classy, and it doesn't mean you don't have to learn more and better meaningful tricks aside from prettiness. The Louvre is 6 euro to see a record of the artistic and thoughtful achievements of our race. Versailles is 27 euro to see the gold gates and the pen where they used to perfume Marie Antoinette's sheep, until the peasants had enough and came and beat her door down and cut off her carefully made up head. After all these years, Versailles apparently is still a great symbol of learning nothing, a last gasp from an extinct and irrelevant Monarchy. Versailles, Louis, Marie, and Napoleon can all get fucked. It is a fitting end you have become an overpriced tourist trap, may you be trod upon by yokels until acid rain claims you.

Ho ho. Maybe that's coming on a little strong bubba! But it is my passionate belief that we all deserve access to the lasting beautiful things that we make. It's simply crass to pimp out something that should be culturally relevant with a ridiculous markup that'd make AIG assholes pump their grimy, fat, fists in 2004. Aren't there enough things for sale?

Ironically, the exorbinant pricetag turns it into something cheap.

So. Having a greater understanding of the French Revolution I moved on. The connecting station on RER line C to Versailles is Champs de Mars/Eiffel Tower. As you can see from the pictures the weather was amazing today. If you ever find yourself in Paris, you are obviously required by cosmic law to go to the tower. I have been to the top of it twice and so I did not this time. Rather right before the grand entrance to the tower, where there is the snaking line, and the snack stand, and the gravel, and the dust, there is a small park on the southeast side of the tower. There is a small pond, and benches, and grass that people sit and lay on. Initially I was sitting on the bench, reading my Eurail timetable and trying to figure out what I want to do after Munich. There was a group of kids in their early 20's sitting on blankets in a circle talking and seemingly unaware of their surroundings, five, six, couples of various ages sitting and looking upward, or laying and cuddling eachother under the small trees in the courtyard, kids were chasing pigeons who would flutter indignantly and then quickly return. I watched two beautiful french girls jog by in their sports bras and then suddenly realized I was the guy from Aqualung and quickly scrambled onto the grass.

The march back from Versailles had been hot, I was wearing long sleeves and do not want to roll them up as laundry will not be an option very often. I do not want stretched sleeves, therefore. My shoulder hurt from my bag, and when I lay on the cold grass in the shade under the tower I immediately felt a deep sense of comforted calm. Most of my trip thus far as been a scramble, finding where to go, negotiating with hotel clerks, or shady produce dealers in St. Denis. I think that this trip being treated more like an adventure than a vacation, calm and relaxation will be in shorter supply than you would otherwise suppose. However, laying in the park, with the kids playing with the birds, listening to the pond and ducks on a glorious Sunday afternoon put me immediately to sleep. This picture is what I was looking at directly above me when I fell asleep.

As I write this, I am on my stomach in a hostel in a not nice neighborhood where seemingly everything smells like piss, I was offered drugs today by four seperate people between the metro and the door. The walls are purple and my room mate is snoring like a freight train making dirty drunken love to a chainsaw. Tomorrow I am going to Louvre, before I catch my night train to Nice.

Things are very fantastic, thanks.

Our lady and me

I am sitting in my boxers and a tank top, over a busy Parisian street. My window is open and I can hear laughing voices, gunning engines, horns, and the occasional siren. It is a clear night, cool, and you can barely see the stars unless you look closely. I walked the streets for nearly two hours before I realized that it wasn't cloudy. It wasn't as if I wasn't looking upward as I strolled, most places here look more like they were scuplted as opposed to built, a uniform whitewashed stone, intricate designs, that go for blocks. Most places of development that you see you can picture the world without interference from us, people, you can picture the trees, or grass, but not here. It could be an American sensibility that I have, being that here is so much older than my usual surroudings, but I make my way and have this feeling that Paris has always been here. Some Parisians I know, I think, feel the same way.

I arrived this morning, I did not sleep on the plane but rather got drunk and watched 3 movies, I started appropriately enough with a stiff neck and a slight hangover. I came here with no plan at all. I very nearly went and found a line going to Spain, but rather got on the RER train from De Gaulle airport, and rode the hideously ugly route into town. The large inner core of Paris is undeniably stunning, but the tagged sprawl of their suburbs are tacky and ill kept. There is much garbage along the track, which is barely hidden from view by rusted metal dividers, and worn concrete. Every inch of available space is written on in spray paint. Even the vegetation is affected, the grass is brown and uneven, very long here, non existent here, its like the unfortunate end of a story that starts: "Rodney had been drinking heavily against Doctor's orders after his concussion, and so he decided to cut his own hair..."

I chose to get off at Gare Du Nord, which is one of major train stations in the city. Leaving the platform and coming outside there were seven hotel signs immediately visable. I visited all of them, with no luck, until four blocks from the station I found this place. For 65 euro (far too much, but far cheaper than anything else I had encountered) I got this:

Notice my things already sprawled about.

I unpacked, found that I had not brought my Ipod's usb charger, and promptly began my 3 month adventure with a 4 hour nap.

When I woke I set about planning this coming week before I head to Oktoberfest in Munich (Munchen on my Eurail timetable) to celebrate my birthday. Tomorrow I will go to Versailles, as I have never been, and I will probably spend the night before returning to Paris the next day, go to the Louvre and wait for my train to Nice. I am going to Nice, Bordeaux, and Tolouse, on consecutive days before my train for Munich leaves from Paris. Four nights next week I will sleep on trains, which is good for saving money, and not so good for staying in touch. Expect me to drop off the map for a few days.

Having done that, it was already nearly 9PM France time. I was packed into a clausterphobic and sweaty heap of people on a metro train headed southwest. What happened to the oxygen in the car was basically the same thing that happens to sex workers, too much use. The air was so recycled, and moist, and warm from everyone else's lungs that you'd feel a little icky standing in it. Needless to elaborate that is was a relief to be off, and back into the light filled, music saturated, evening. I got off at St. Michel and saw a fascinating throng of people/tourists that represented an impressive cross section of everyone and everywhere. I counted 15 languages spoken along the confined banks of the Seine river. It was some of the best people watching you'll ever see. There were Parisian natives dressed to the nines, annoyed at the obstacles, with mobile phones glued to their ears, English students organizing a pub crawl, a German couple holding hands on one of the tourist river boats that cruise by every few minutes. I saw a Brazillian Soccer team with sleeveless tees and nylon pants, groups of Asian people talking and laughing, and sitting in front of Notre Dame a clutch of gypsies who all had dogs, who were all running about and nipping at eachother. The air was heavy with unfamiliar words, food smells, and music from several points. A group of street musicians had set up amplifiers and microphones right next to the river, right next to the Cathedral, and as I sat in front of the impressive gothic edifce I could hear them playing La Bamba, of all things, and then Twist and Shout, and then La Bamba again without stopping. Lots of people had gathered around them.

Yah. La Bamba. That's what I said.

I think that Notre Dame is my favorite place here. It was built over 500 years, like a gift from the human race to itself. I am not a reglious person, but I know and care for lots of Catholics and I can only imagine with much respect the feelings such a place would give. It is a place of such grandeur that it functions as so many things, a literary reference, a religious experience, a tourist trap, the shadow of the Cathedral could make you feel like you were in a movie or suddenly very much aware that you are smack dab in the middle of your own life and make you wonder what it all means. How many people have sat where you are sitting, what did they accomplish? How did they die? What was their story? Places like Notre Dame give me a sense of the meaning of things, and yet how casual those meaningful things are in the cosmic sense. It's a mirror you look in, that both dwarfs and magnifies every single thing. My crappy pictures won't convey this, especially since my flash ironically adds a hellish looking red tint to everything, but here you are anyways:

Think it was almost an hour and a half I sat there watching people. Long enough to see them hustle everyone out and close the doors. I stood by the river awhile and listened to all the music, bought batteries for my camera, and I smiled at the people sitting at the streetside cafes drinking coffee, and beer, and burying their faces and social anxieties into their cell phones.

The train wasn't as oppressive returning, I got a 3 euro panini from some snack stand and returned to my humble room, where I am sitting in my boxers and a tank top, by an open window over a busy Parisian street.

A gift from the air.

4 in the morning, in the car, AM radio: A truck driver calls in and angrily says the government is given no authority to do the things it does by the Constitution. Say Obamacare makes him think of Stalin's Russia. He has such simplistic vistriol that it is impossible to not at least listen to such an angry man speaking so passionately even if you agree with nothing he says and find him ignorant and dangerous. After his rant, he asks the host if the host has ever seen "Superhero Movie". Its a "Scary Movie" like spoof of the comic book movie genre... my angry caller laughs uproariously at the memory of said film and speaks with equal passion that it is the funniest movie of all time. He is blissfully unaware of his sudden crisis of credibility.

Awesome.

Anyway, I think this is tremendous litmus test for anyone sharing an opinion. If your favorite show is "According to Jim", then we have no reason to listen to anything you have to say. Favorite book is by Mary Higgins Clark? Sorry, back of the line and try not to knock anything over. So, next time before you get into a heated debate on anything having to do with politics, religion, or anything else people get very angry very quickly about, maybe find out if they thought "Whole Nine Yards" was funny, and worth watching aside from the inexplicable 20 minute long Amanda Peet nude scene. If they say "Yes! Mathew Perry is soooo funny." Smile, and back away for three steps, and then run. For it does not pay to discuss the merits of having a Department of Education with such a person.

In two days I leave for Paris and this journey. I still do not have a Russian Visa... there are apparently complications. I am leaving anyway, as I am tired of waiting and the world has seemed to try to stop me from going. If I do not get the Visas I require I will have to find another way. I promise to make it as legal as possible.